


We’re catching bullets (with our heads and  hearts and all the darkest parts of us)

by zinabug



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Study, Demonic Possession, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I forgot to tag what kind of fic this even is, I had some thoughts about Percy at 2am then I wrote them, Kinda, No edits we die like fools, Percy: I’m a horrible person, Rated M because it’s intense not nsfw, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Whump, ah well. As I said it’s like 4am, also sorry I read though this like twice, anyway, everyone: Percy we care you, it was all written and edited between 2 and 4am, probably should have put that their earlier, spoilers for CR1 up to glintshore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24036484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinabug/pseuds/zinabug
Summary: Just several sad thought about Percy De Rolo that you have to think about now.*READ THE TAGS FOR CWs PREFERABLY ALL THE WAY THROUGH (I know I rambled) BECAUSE I KEPT THINKING OF THINGS*Title from the song bullets by Tunng
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	We’re catching bullets (with our heads and  hearts and all the darkest parts of us)

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR CAMPAIGN 1 UP TO THE GLINTSHORE ARC

He’s been broken for so long. 

Broken since the first crossbow bolt, straight through his father's neck. 

Broken since the first spell cast. 

Broken since Cassandra took those arrows for him, and  _ he didn’t deserve to live when they had all died.  _

He pressed the barrel of his gun to his own head. It was hardly about Orthax anymore. It was about control, about some semblance of freedom, if pressing a broken gun to your head and pulling the trigger means anything at all. 

He was going insane. Smoke curled around him and burned in his chest. 

He had only himself to blame. 

_ Cassandra de rolo  _

There would always be another name for The List, and one day the last barrel would have his name on it. 

He didn’t care, and yet he did care, he cared too much. 

His mask was heavy on his face, the smoke thick and choking. everything was gray, gray and black and bloody. 

White snow and red blood and he’d left her in the cold to die. She still had scars, he did, white starbursts of arrows and crossbow bolts and sharp lines of knives. 

Later, he would take Cassandra’s hand, and he would see some of the scars on her arms mirrored his, and some of them weren’t as old as the white starbursts on his back. 

Percy remembered days in a prison cell, young and angry and  _ scared  _ and  _ so full of hate.  _

He wasn’t just hating his enemies, and he wasn't tugging at his chains so hard it drew blood just to attempt escape. 

He almost understood why Vax did it. Why he threw himself directly into harm's way, why he took so many blows for them. The difference was the intention and emotions behind it- how Vax was driven so much more by love then self-hatred. 

Revenge didn’t help. Revenge didn’t do you anything but fill in the cracks with black smoke and with hate and rage. 

Yes, he felt better once Orthax was gone. He was fine. Yes, he did, really,  _ please just stop asking.  _

But did he? 

He still felt the sick joy in blood, still felt the hate, and the black smoke curled inside him. 

Cassandra understood. He could go to her, they could tell each other anything and they would understand, and maybe, just maybe, they could heal together. 

And he did heal. 

Impossibly, he started healing, and he wasn’t hiding behind his name and title anymore. 

He remembered when he desperately threw the name at everyone he met, Hoping against hope for a flash of recognition at the name “De Rolo.” 

He remembered and held back, held back from Vex’s offered hand and offered kisses- he was so frightened he would snap, that he would break someone else. 

He was walking on glass only he could see, and under the glass flowed blood. When the glass broke, he’d be drowning. 

He was trying to heal, at least he thought he was. There was always that small part of him, asking - who are you without the pain? - that he tried to ignore as he learned to really love again. 

He expected it, in glintshore. He’d drifted back to the darker parts of his brilliant mind and he somehow knew. 

He was going to die there. 

Gunshots and then the pain and the sound of his ribs splintering- he fell back, still smiling, and he impossibly got back up again and again. 

He realized he forgave her the moment the first fatal shot hit him. 

What was the use of revenge and hate anymore? One of them was going to die for good today, and he didn’t care who.

“I forgive you-” he never thought he’d say that to  _ Anna Ripley _ , never mind while he was dying. He felt a small bubble of delight in his chest at her shock, pushing through the pain. He really did forgive her. 

_ Can you forgive someone when you can't forgive yourself?  _

“But I cannot let you leave.” It wasn’t even personal. It was about the firearms. He couldn’t have them in the world, regretted building them more than anything. 

And it was as he died, truly broken, shattered ribs and punctured lung and slight, bloody smile, that he realized that maybe she wasn’t the only person he could forgive. 

Just maybe, as his world faded into blackness, he saw a sliver of light for the first time in so long. 


End file.
